


A Curious Visitor

by Gwyn_Paige



Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Moth Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Paladins, Pre-Relationship, Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:41:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26619130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwyn_Paige/pseuds/Gwyn_Paige
Summary: Martin, a long-loyal paladin, meets his angel in person for the first time.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Paladin Martin/Angel Jon AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936486
Comments: 85
Kudos: 398





	A Curious Visitor

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: Lady-potato-ninja on tumblr did [this amazing fanart](https://lady-potato-ninja.tumblr.com/post/636524073317482496/at-last-heres-my-piece-for-di-ckwheelies-fanfic) of this fic!! Please go check it out when you're done reading!!
> 
> Also check out [this absolutely gorgeous fanart](https://mossy-rainfrog.tumblr.com/post/629668481651146752/so-ive-recently-become-completely-enamored-with) of angel Jon and paladin Martin drawn by my amazing friend Moss ([coulson-is-an-avenger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coulson_is_an_avenger/pseuds/coulson_is_an_avenger))!!
> 
> The public release of this sequel is entirely thanks to everyone who left such lovely comments on the previous fic in this . . . series? Yeah I guess it's a series now. Y'all gave me the motivation to actually sit down and edit this so quickly! Thank you all so much for your kind words!
> 
> Content warnings for the very beginning of this: Martin's mother being the worst, gaslighting
> 
> Please enjoy!

When Martin returns home from his mother’s house that night, he drops his traveling bag by the door as though it weighs as much as a boulder.

He drops himself, in turn, heavily onto his kitchen chair, puts his elbows on the table, rubs his eyes. The cottage is dark, and he ought to light a fire, he thinks.

He doesn’t get up.

Today had been . . . difficult. It had started bad and ended worse. He’d woken up with an ache in his back from sleeping on it wrong and it had made binding a slower and more painful process than usual. His visit to the market for food and medicine for his mother had been almost completely unproductive, as many of the vendors were either out of the goods he required or had yet again increased their prices. He’d overheard more than one nervous-sounding villager tittering about the recent sightings of strange, ominous beasts on the outskirts of the kingdom, which did little to improve Martin’s mood. Even at the bookshop he hadn’t found anything new or interesting that he wanted to read. In the end he purchased a dull-looking historical tome; at least the moths might find it interesting.

And then there was his mother’s house.

He hadn’t been fooling himself that it would be a pleasant visit, but he’d hoped, at least, for a relatively painless afternoon and early supper. Things had started off fairly well, or about as well as could be expected, his mother sitting like a great, immovable statue in her armchair, her dull, judgmental eyes watching him as he bustled about her tiny kitchen, putting away the meager amounts of food he’d been able to purchase, and getting ready to prepare a nice, warm stew for her. He prattled on about what had happened in the fortnight since his last visit, of the rumors he’d heard in the market, of some of his business as a paladin. (He never spoke to his mother about his angel, or the moths, or anything regarding his oath of devotion. He knew she didn’t approve of him taking up a sword in the name of anything other than the king, and the last thing he wanted was to start an argument. Besides, it felt . . . wrong, somehow, to share that part of his life with her.)

For most of the afternoon, everything had been fine. His mother seemed more agreeable than usual, in fact; she didn’t exactly reply to anything Martin said, but she made a few attentive noises, and she didn’t criticize his cooking once. Martin had grown fairly optimistic that the day would end on a good note.

Foolishly, he let his guard down. As they were eating dinner, he mentioned offhandedly that he’d started writing poetry again. He didn’t even mention that it was for sacrificing to his angel, but just the mention of his poetry was enough to set his mother off.

It was as though she’d been saving it up all afternoon, or maybe for all of the two weeks since his last visit. He didn’t even want to think about some of the things she’d said to him, with a kind of cold contempt in her eyes, as he quickly gathered his things and left half of his bowl of stew on the dining room table.

Martin always knew when it was time to leave his mother’s house.

Now, back in his cottage, a safe haven even in the dark, Martin curses himself for speaking so unthinkingly. If he hadn’t brought up poetry, if he had stuck to small talk, if he’d known to just _be quiet_ —

Martin takes a shaky breath, and is surprised to discover that the palms of his hands are wet where they were covering his eyes. Angrily, he wipes at the tears, though they keep coming. _Childish,_ says his mother’s voice in his head. _Crying just because someone yelled at you. I didn’t even yell. I just talked. I told you like it is. Should’ve just kept your mouth shut. Useless._

The chair scrapes loudly against the wooden floor as Martin pushes himself up and away from the kitchen table, snatching a tinderbox from the mantelpiece and crouching down to light a fire in the hearth. If he’s going to cry about his mother like a pathetic child, he figures, he might as well do it in the light.

Indeed, sitting by the warmth of the fire, on the wolfskin rug that covers the hard stone of the hearth, Martin does feel marginally better. The tight, sickly feeling in his stomach that’s been there since he left his mother’s house has abated somewhat, and his tears come slower, now, though they don’t stop.

He feels a slight tickle against the back of his hand where it rests on his knee. He glances down and is unsurprised to find a moth resting there, slowly beating its wings at him, the eye-like patterns looking up at him almost sadly, though that may just be Martin’s imagination.

Through damp eyes, he smiles at it. “Hello,” he says. He brings up his other hand to gently stroke its furry back with a single finger, careful as always not to hurt it. “How was your day? Better than mine, I hope.” There is no reply, of course, but the moth brushes its wings softly against his hand. “Sweet thing,” Martin says, almost to himself. He strokes its back again. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

There is a moment of peaceful silence, before Martin has no choice but to break it.

“She loves me,” he says, voice soft and hoarse. He doesn’t know if he’s talking to the moth, or himself, or the empty cottage. “I know she does. But the way she . . . the way she looks at me sometimes, I—I don’t know. I just—sometimes I just—I feel so terribly lonely.”

Martin closes his eyes, and feels two more tears fall from his lashes and drop, hissing, into the fire.

For a moment, nothing changes. The moth sitting on Martin’s hand continues to slowly beat its wings, and Martin rubs at his eyes in a last desperate attempt to dry them. He’s about to rise to go about readying himself for bed, perhaps not before having a bit of the wine that sits in his cupboards, when Martin hears a noise behind him.

It sounds, Martin will surmise later, not unlike the great whooshing of wings, if those wings were unfurling to break through a crack in a stone wall, splitting it open in one great, forceful movement that shatters it completely.

It is enormously loud, louder than thunder, and Martin spins around immediately. Even the moth sitting on his hand flutters up and away in surprise.

There is a . . . person standing in the middle of Martin’s kitchen.

He is fairly certain they are a person. They certainly look like one, with two arms and two legs, and a head with long, dark hair that tumbles over one shoulder in a thick, loose braid. They are wearing a cloak, of some dark color that isn’t quite discernible in the dim firelight, which hangs from their thin frame in an odd manner. They are tall, extraordinarily so, the top of their head almost brushing the cottage’s stone ceiling. Their face is that of a human, and they stare across the room at Martin with eyes—

Oh, those eyes.

Martin _knows_ those eyes. He’s seen them before, countless times, in the swirling patterns on every pair of moth wings. Two beautiful, knowing, green-brown eyes that look at Martin now with recognition, as the angel—and it must be _his_ angel—speaks in the stunned silence of the room:

_“Finally.”_

The angel tosses his head a bit, and glances down at his body, as though he hadn’t noticed it was there. He runs his hands over his arms, takes hold of his cloak, tugs at his braid. “Yes, yes, all present and accounted for, good then. Oh, I can’t believe it finally _worked_ , I’ve been trying to get through for so _long_.” He laughs slightly, a thrilled little sound, and Martin’s heart stutters.

As though on cue, the angel raises his head again and casts his gaze to Martin, where he still sits by the hearth, frozen in place despite the fire’s warmth. The Angel of Written Knowledge takes a step towards him, then stops, hesitating. It’s ridiculous, Martin knows, but it almost seems as though he’s _shy_.

The angel brings his hands up to his chest, wringing them slightly. “Martin,” he says, his voice unsure around Martin’s name, though his expression shines with familiarity. “I—um. Hello. It’s good to finally . . . meet you.”

Martin blinks rapidly up at the angel towering over him, and all at once realizes that he ought to be doing—something. Perhaps he should bow? Quickly he moves to face the angel fully, and lowers his head, his gaze cast downwards at his knees where they rest on the wolfskin rug.

“Oh!” Far above, Martin hears a confused little exclamation, and then a rapid shuffling, fluttering sound. Suddenly there is another pair of knees in Martin’s view, almost touching his own, and he hears the angel say, “Oh, no, ah—don’t do that, please. There’s no reason for you to bow to me. Formalities are a bit pointless and silly, anyway.”

Slowly, Martin raises his head, and in a moment is face-to-face with his angel, who kneels before him, not a foot away. Even sitting on the floor, he has to bend his neck a bit to meet Martin at eye level. Up close, his eyes are so bright they almost seem to glow—or perhaps it’s only the firelight. His face is . . . well, Martin has never been the best judge of beauty, but he’s sure any angel’s physical form must be a beautiful one. His expression is so eager, but in an anxious sort of way, his brow furrowed and eyes darting back and forth across Martin’s face. Martin supposes he ought to be nervous, but at the moment, the angel looks nervous enough for both of them.

He is also still talking. “I mean—that isn’t to say you’re being silly. Bowing is just what mortals have been told is the custom. Really, I don’t think most angels would care one way or the other. There are so many bizarre traditions mortals have that are wrapped up with angels, and almost all of them are misinformed—”

“So—you _are_ an angel,” Martin says. _My_ angel, he doesn’t say. He still can’t quite believe this is happening. Angels physically manifesting and speaking to their paladins wasn’t unheard of, but it was extremely rare. And the sorts of people angels manifested for weren’t people like Martin.

The angel blinks, suddenly wide-eyed. “I—yes. Apologies. I didn’t introduce myself.” He clears his throat, raises his shoulders a bit. Martin notices the cloak that folds around him rustle slightly, as though there is something moving inside it. “I am an angel, yes. You know me as the Angel of Written Knowledge, but mortals have given me many names. I’ve also been called the Bookkeeper, the Archivist, the Librarian, the Collector . . . yes, well.” He clears his throat. “Many names, as you can see. But, ah . . .” The angel glances off to the side and begins to fiddle with his hands again.

“Yes?” Martin says, not quite believing he’s lending an angel encouragement. Still, this angel isn’t exactly what Martin would have expected.

“I know you like to call me . . . ah, your angel. Which is, ah, well—” He shifts his weight a bit. “I don’t dislike it. But I prefer . . . I’d prefer it if you’d call me Jon.”

Martin blinks. “Jon?” It’s such a simple name for someone so . . . otherworldly.

“Yes. Short for Jonathan. I . . . read it in a book, once, long ago, and I liked it enough to borrow it for myself.”

Huh, Martin thinks. “Would you believe me,” he says, “if I told you I got my name from a book as well?”

The angel—Jon—looks at him with barely-contained enthusiasm. “Really! Which—ah, may I ask which book?”

Martin wracks his brain, but it’s difficult enough to think of a book you read over a decade ago when you haven’t got an angel sitting in front of you. “Ah, I honestly can’t remember now,” he says, apologetically. “But it was just like you said—I read the name, I liked it, and I, uh, I borrowed it.”

“Of course, right.” Jon nods several times. If he had been human, Martin would have almost called him flustered. “Martin was . . . a good choice. It’s a strong name, it fits you very well.”

Martin smiles, a little flustered himself now. “Oh, well. Thank you. I, uh, I like the name Jon for you, as well.”

“I appreciate that. I quite like the name, but I’ve never gotten anyone else to use it, you see. This is . . . well, this is the first time I’ve ever had the power to manifest physically, on the mortal plane.” Jon looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers, as though still getting used to them. “It’s an . . . interesting feeling.”

“Why . . . why now?” Martin says, as the question occurs to him. “What suddenly gave you the power to manifest?” He would guess it was probably one of Jon’s other paladins, striking down a fearsome beast in his name, or sacrificing a precious family heirloom.

Jon looks at him, puzzled. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Martin huffs. “Not to me, it isn’t.” He knows it probably isn’t the smartest thing in the world to talk back to an angel, but the evening has been bizarre enough already.

Jon, for his part, seems to take no issue. He gestures at the fireplace behind Martin. “Your tears. They landed in the fire, and that must have counted as a sacrifice, a significant one.”

“I . . .” Martin doesn’t know what to think. His tears, bringing his angel here. It sounded like something out of a child’s fairy tale. Too good to be true.

“So now I’m here,” Jon goes on, “ _finally_. I’ve been trying to get through, to talk to you in person, for . . . well, ever since you took your oath by my shrine.” The corner of Jon’s mouth twitches upward into a shy smile, which Martin finds oddly sweet.

But there’s something about all of this that still doesn’t make sense. “Why me, though?” says Martin.

“Hm?”

“Why did you want to meet me?” Martin says, gesturing at himself, and he’s reminded that his face is probably still blotchy from crying, and he’s still wearing his dirty traveling clothes. “What did I do?”

“Well, you’re—” Jon begins easily, then stops, his brow furrowing as he tries to decide on the right words. It’s an utterly human expression that Martin can’t help but smile at. “I—ah, I just wanted to—”

A thought occurs to Martin that sends a swoop of anxiety through his stomach. “Was it the poetry I sacrificed? Did . . . did you actually read it? Is that why you’re here?”

Jon seems taken aback by this. “Well—yes, in a way,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “the poetry was . . . part of it. But mostly it was—well, you’re—” Jon cuts himself off again with a short, frustrated sound.

Martin decides to table the subject of poetry for now, mostly for Jon’s sake. “For an angel of knowledge, Jon, you’re awfully unforthcoming.”

Jon brings his shoulders back almost haughtily. “I am an angel of _retaining_ knowledge, not giving it.”

Martin reminds himself that it probably isn’t polite to roll his eyes at an angel. “Jon . . .”

“Right, right. Apologies.” Jon brings a hand up to tug on his braid for a moment. “I’ll just—right. Martin,” he says at last, “you are . . . my only paladin.”

Jon searches Martin’s face with those piercing eyes of his, as though waiting for a reaction, which Martin does not provide.

Jon hurriedly adds, “The only one who’s sworn an oath of devotion to me, anyway. I’ve had some . . . followers, over the centuries, but . . . no paladins. No one who knelt at my shrine. Just . . . just you.”

Martin feels his heart sink, and his face falls with it. He doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting from a visit from his angel, but he can’t say he’s surprised. Too good to be true, it seems, was correct. “So that’s why you wanted to meet me,” he says, trying not to sound too disappointed. “I’m your only source of power.”

“No. No! No, Martin, that’s not at all what I meant.” Jon shakes his head vehemently, before his eyes meet Martin’s, and even though he wants to, Martin wills himself not to look away. “You’re more than that, Martin, you’re—oh, this isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. I . . .” Jon takes a steadying breath. “The—the day you chose me, walking past the shrines of all the other, greater angels, only to stop at mine, I . . . I was so angry with myself for not having enough power to appear before you. To thank you, as you deserved to be thanked. Nobody had . . . noticed me, seen me, in so long. And when you asked me, as you knelt, when you asked me to look into your heart so I would know you were with me, devoted to me, I did. I looked. I . . . I saw you. And you felt . . . you felt so familiar. Like a home, except that I’d never really had one of those, before. But your heart, it felt . . . warm. And—and safe. And when I finally looked away, I knew I was yours. As much as you were mine.”

Jon takes a deep breath, as though the speech had winded them. Martin says nothing. He doesn’t look away. Though the fire is dying behind him, Jon’s eyes remain bright.

Jon continues. “Mortals and angels alike often forget that oaths of devotion go both ways. You choose us, but in order for the oath to be complete, we have to choose you, as well. We have to pledge to do our best to help you, defend you, just as you do the same for us. Most angels can manage by giving tiny bits of themselves to hundreds of followers. But I knew, that day, I’d never be able to give myself to anyone else. I couldn’t give you just a fraction of myself, not when you deserved more. You . . . you deserve the entirety of me, of all I have to give. Since that day I’ve been trying to give you that. I . . . I do my best, anyway.

“And it isn’t . . . it’s not about power, Martin. I don’t . . . I don’t want power. Well, a bit of power, yes. Enough to get by. Enough to bless your armor with protection spells, or help you heal after a battle. Enough to appear before you, like this. But I don’t want . . . I don’t want to be like the greater angels, feeding off of the glut of thousands of sacrifices and battles coming from a thousand different directions every day.” Jon shudders. “No, that doesn’t . . . well. Anyway. Suffice it to say, power doesn’t much matter to me.” At last, he looks away, glancing self-consciously off to the side. “You matter to me. Not much else.”

And Jon finally falls silent. For a moment there is no sound but the crackling of the dwindling fire and Martin’s own breathing.

There is an eager, burgeoning feeling in Martin’s chest that he is desperately trying to keep down, even as he runs his mind over Jon’s words. Too good to be true, he reminds himself. Don’t get your hopes up. Angels are mysterious creatures; they can deceive and hurt and cheat just as easily as mortals can.

But Jon’s eyes are bright and open where they stare into Martin’s, waiting, and his hands tremble a bit where they rest on his knees.

At length, careful to keep his voice measured and slow, Martin, unable to think of a better question to ask, says, “Is that . . . all true?”

“Yes,” Jon says at once, and the word is like a pebble dropped on the ground.

And Martin believes him. He doesn’t know where the bone-deep certainty comes from, exactly, but he knows that every word Jon has said to him is true. He doesn’t know where the sudden boldness comes from, either, when he reaches out and takes Jon’s hands in his own. His hands are thin and long, easily dwarfed by Martin’s wide palms, but they’re warm, and feel human enough.

Jon returns the gesture at once, curling his fingers around Martin’s, and stares down at their hands, an unreadable expression on his face. “Thank you,” Jon says, softly.

Martin looks up, incredulous. “Don’t thank _me_. I know I’m your first-ever paladin, but that isn’t usually how this works.”

Jon blinks at him, surprised, until his face breaks into a smile. He squeezes Martin’s hands a bit. “Alright. So . . . thank me, then. If that’s what you’d prefer.”

Martin smiles back, and lets a bit, just a bit, of that burgeoning hope grow in his chest. “O blessed angel, who wishes to be called Jon, this humble paladin thanks you for . . .” Martin bites the inside of his cheek for a moment, thinking. There are a million things he can say, after all. Eventually, with a grin, he lands on, “For your honesty.”

At this Jon laughs, long and joyful, and the sound almost seems to reverberate in Martin’s own chest. When he quiets, however, Jon’s expression turns cautious, and he squeezes Martin’s hands again. “I . . . um. I have sort of an . . . odd request.”

Martin is only slightly worried about what an odd request from an angel would look like. “What is it?”

“I—ah. Forgive me, it’s a little difficult to—that is—um, may I—?” Jon tilts his head forward, bringing it nearer to Martin’s, almost so they’re lined up in such a way—

Oh, Martin thinks. Oh, I _see_. “Ah!” he says. “Right. O-Okay! Sure! Yes, that would be . . . that would be fine.” It’s a bit early, Martin thinks, for a first kiss, but he’s game. And, if he’s honest, he’s curious what kissing an angel would feel like.

So Martin leans up closer, tilts his head a bit, closes his eyes, and waits—

There’s a gentle pressure, but not against his lips. Instead, Martin feels a solid, steady weight against his forehead, and just the barest sensation of eyelashes brushing against his own.

Reflexively, he opens his eyes, and is greeted with the sight of Jon’s face, eyes serenely closed, his forehead pressed against Martin’s. Martin lets out a slight gasp, and feels his hands tighten around Jon’s.

It’s far more intimate than a kiss ever could be. Martin has kissed and been kissed a handful of times in his life, but no one has ever done something like this. He wonders, in the back of his mind, whether this is just something angels do. Somehow he doubts it.

This close, he can tell that Jon isn’t breathing, which is a bit disconcerting, but he is warm, like any human would be. He finds that Jon smells like old books and the air right before thunderstorms.

This is the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me, Martin thinks absentmindedly. Not two hours ago, he was fleeing his mother’s house. He doesn’t have a clue what he did to end up where he is now, sitting on his hand-me-down rug, practically embracing an angel that he assumed didn’t even know Martin’s name, who instead has just told him he’s the most important thing in his life.

His mother’s house feels like a lifetime ago.

Feeling bold again, Martin closes his eyes and sort of leans up into the pressure, slightly knocking his nose against Jon’s, and he’s so close now he can actually feel Jon smile. He hears that odd fluttering sound again, just for a moment.

They are both still for quite a while, and then finally Jon leans back a bit, separating them by a few inches. He isn’t smiling, exactly, but his eyes are incredibly bright, though the fire has long since died.

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s voice is soft, and warmer than the fire was. He hasn’t let go of Martin’s hands. “I know that was . . . unexpected, but I . . . it’s just, well.” He breathes a silent laugh. “It’s just very good to finally meet you, Martin.”

Martin laughs a bit himself. For the second time that night, there are tears at the corners of his eyes, but this time for an entirely different reason. “Likewise, Jon,” he says, and his angel smiles at him like Martin is the brightest, most beautiful flame.

**Author's Note:**

> Please go check out lady-potato-ninja's [gorgeous art](https://lady-potato-ninja.tumblr.com/post/636524073317482496/at-last-heres-my-piece-for-di-ckwheelies-fanfic)!!
> 
> And coulson-is-an-avenger's [amazing art](https://mossy-rainfrog.tumblr.com/post/629668481651146752/so-ive-recently-become-completely-enamored-with)!!
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Thank you again to everyone who was so enthusiastic about New Arrivals, I really can't say thank you enough.
> 
> I have a whole bunch of random other scenes and ideas relating to this AU, so please let me know if you'd like to see more of it!


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